


Rough Around the Edges

by rabbit_hearted



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: #PromoteLukasRandall, F/M, i dont even know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:27:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25992121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbit_hearted/pseuds/rabbit_hearted
Summary: When Lukas is denied a promotion to Sergeant due to his unapproachable disposition, he enlists the help of the absurdly kind Lila Desroses for some pointers.Or: #PromoteLukasRandall
Relationships: Lila Desroses/Lukas "Grumpy Cat" Randall
Comments: 26
Kudos: 66





	Rough Around the Edges

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know why we’ve had, like, two panels of interaction between these two and I can’t stop thinking about them.
> 
> This idea really comes from MasochisticHero, who co-writes the incomparably wonderful Beyond the Impasse. They asked Eph why Lukas hasn't been promoted yet. Her response was that he’s simply content with his role, but I got to thinking, and … this idea snowballed. So basically, this idea is not canon compliant based on Eph’s literal response, but Rabbit said: “I pretend I do not see it.”

When Lukas is denied a promotion for the third time since starting at the eleventh precinct, he should, realistically, feel something along the gamut of the emotional spectrum. But because pleasantries confuse him, and because he finds decorum exhausting, and because conversational nuance is both of those things combined in exponential measure, he elects to feel nothing at all. 

“You’ve got to understand, Randall,” Hermann says, tapping his pen against the edge of his desk in an insipid metronome, “There’s a certain … diplomacy, with these things.” 

“I understand, sir.” 

“You’re a little …” he flicks his palm out, wrist up, as though that’s supposed to mean something. “You know.” 

“Uh huh,” Lukas says. 

“These are difficult choices. I’m sure we’ll be having a different conversation during the next promotion cycle.” He’s following the usual script with perfect accuracy — next, he’ll say something complimentary about Lukas’ work ethic to offset the general sense of humiliation one is meant to feel during this sort of interaction.

“You’ve got the right work ethic. I’m confident that some more time in the ranks as an officer will get you there.” Hermann gathers a pile of reports and taps them into a neat stack, and the shuffle of the paper against the lacquered surface rings out with a sort of judgmental finality, like the crack of a gavel. 

His jaw feels taut enough to snap clean in half as he nods, squaring his shoulders back in a perfect picture of indifference. 

The sun-baked office smells vaguely of stale coffee and peppermint rounds. Hermann unwraps one from the dish next to his typewriter and crunches down on it while he speaks. “The thing is, Randall,” he continues, spraying little red and white peppermint shards around the corners of his mouth, “I’ve got to consider the bigger picture. Your performance on paper is impeccable. You’re one of our finest marksmen.”

And thus begins the tortuous wait for the inevitable caveat.

“Lieutenant Hawkes speaks highly of your performance during patrols. In fact, he advocated strongly for your promotion to Sergeant.” 

Lukas flexes his fingertips under the desk, rolling out the tension in his knuckles. He’d rather get shot than listen to a list of accolades that will be immediately superseded by an insult of his character, though that is, expectedly, exactly how this meeting has unfolded.

“But you’re a bit…” He trails off, pressing his lips into a hard line. “Rough around the edges. You see what I’m saying?”

“Rough around the edges,” Lukas repeats.

“Some find you intimidating, to put it plainly.”

His gaze narrows onto his palms. “I see.”

Herman nods self-assuredly. “I knew you’d understand.” 

A beat passes, slow as a raindrop down a windowpane. Lukas doesn’t _think_ it’s possible to die as a result of a viscerally awkward conversation, though, in this moment, it feels like it might be. 

“Will that be all, sir?” 

“One more thing.” He leans forward on his elbows. “It might do you some good to observe your colleagues.”

Lukas’ gaze snaps up, then, clashing with the hard set of Hermann’s. Silhouetted against the window, the eleventh precinct’s Police Captain is cut from stone, harsh light and hard edges, like sunlight against a cliff’s face. A long moment passes in which they appraise each other in pointed silence. 

Lukas focuses on arranging his features into a mask of neutrality with the cautious precision of a heart surgeon. He’s been told that he has an excessively expressive face, so, naturally, he’s concerned that his features might betray how absurd he finds this proposition. When Lukas says nothing, Hermann trudges on with all of the begrudging acquiescence of a starved soldier on the front lines of war. It is absurdly transparent that he enjoys presenting this suggestion just about as much as Lukas enjoys receiving it. 

“I know that this sort of thing doesn’t come easily to you, Randall. You might try, _you know_ , getting to know your peers in a social setting.” He clears his throat and pushes back his chair so roughly that the legs whine against the floor. “Well, then. That will be all.”

“Yes, sir,” Lukas mutters woodenly. 

He spends the rest of the afternoon stewing over the conversation, wondering why on earth social aptitude should even _matter_ in the consideration for a promotion. Plenty of people, after all, are able to perform their job functions capably without the added obligation of sociability. Keeping updated on office politics doesn’t make him any less competent at shooting criminals.

In his ponderings, two things become immediately clear. The first being that, if he has any hope of being promoted to Sergeant, he’ll need to show some sort of interest in the affairs of his coworker’s personal lives. 

The second being that he has absolutely no idea how to do that.

“Why the long face, Grumpy Cat?” 

Sergeant Kym Ladell plants her palms on Lukas’ desk and leans forward, one brow quirked. “You’ve been sulking even more than usual.” 

It’s the end of the work day and the precinct is nearly empty, save for the two of them and the secretary, Lila. She clicks away on her typewriter at her desk, eyes narrowed in focus, a pencil balanced between her teeth.

“Don’t call me Grumpy Cat,” Lukas hisses through his teeth, glancing around for witnesses. He’ll have to start damage control on his reputation, starting with the asinine nickname. “And I’m fine, _Sargeant._ ”

A shadow passes over Kym’s expression. She hums, nodding in understanding. “Ah. So _that’s_ what this is about.” 

Lukas pulls a heavy hand over his face. “What are you on about?”

“Hermann denied your promotion again.” Genuine condolence flickers across Kym’s features. “Look, Lukas, Will really tried this time-”

“ _Enough_ ,” Lukas snaps. “I don’t need your sympathy. Hermann told me what I need to do.” He grimaces, dreading his next words, as though he’d been asked to perform a lobotomy on himself with a plastic spoon. “Apparently I’m…” he leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest petulantly. “Intimidating.” 

Kym folds her lips into a neat line, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “Ah.”

“I need to … I don’t know,” he throws his palms up. “ _Be friendlier,_ or something.” 

“Be friendlier,” she echoes, trailing her palm across her jawline. She rocks back on her heels, gaze narrowed unseeingly out the window. “Well,” Kym suggests, “You could try not attempting homicide when all of the clean coffee mugs are taken.”

“I do not-” He leans forward, lips curled into a snarl. Then, remembering that he’s supposed to be attempting civility, he stops himself. 

“On second thought,” Lukas continues coolly, “Thank you for the suggestion, Sergeant Ladell. I’ll be sure to take that into consideration.” 

Kym narrows her eyes. “Don’t do that. It’s creepy.”

“Do _what_?”

“That whole fake nice thing. You look like a serial killer.”

Lukas blows a breath through his teeth and plants his forehead into his palms. “It’s hopeless.” 

“Listen, Grumpy Cat,” Kym says, leaning her hip against the edge of his desk. “I’ll offer you some free advice, if you are so inclined to take it.” 

“Advice from you?” Lukas murmurs. “I’m better off staying an officer until the day I die.” 

“Suit yourself,” Kym clips, turning away.

“ _Wait_.” Lukas picks his head up and draws his lip between his teeth, fixing Kym with a narrowed glare. He spends a long, tortured moment assessing how much he values his dignity. 

“Yes?” Kym asks sweetly, feigning ignorance. 

“I…” 

She fixes her lips into a pout, blinking pointedly. 

“ _Fine_. I could… use your advice,” he acquiesces, coughing. 

“What’s the magic word?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Nope, that’s not it.”

“ _Please,_ ” Lukas spits.

“I’m so glad you asked!” Kym chirps, then presses the tip of her index finger to her chin in contemplation. “In my opinion,” she continues, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur, “You should probably align yourself with the most universally liked person in the office.” She leans back, shrugging. “Might teach you a thing or two.” 

Lukas blinks, palming at the back of his neck. “Who?”

“ _God_ , you’re even more hopeless than I thought.” Kym glances meaningfully to her left, towards the secretary’s desk. 

Lila Desroses looks like a daydream, cut in a swath of dusky, filtered light, pencil bobbing between her full lips. A Renaissance painting depicting youthful innocence; all soft, wind-bitten cheeks and rounded edges, hands glancing delicately over the keys of her typewriter like a pianist. 

He swallows, turning back to Kym. “I can’t,” he hisses. “Not her.”

“What?” 

“She’s — she’s too _nice_ ,” he says.

“That’s the point, _genius_.” 

“I’ll look like an idiot.” 

“I’m not asking you to propose marriage. Just _talk_ to her. Ask her for some advice.” Kym gathers her jacket and reaches into the pocket for her watch, then assesses Lukas soberly for a long moment, twisting the cold chain between her fingertips. “I’ve got to go, but think about what I said.” 

Kym saunters towards the exit with a pronounced lilt in her step that makes Lukas feel uneasy. “Goodnight, Lila,” she calls on her way out, pointedly catching his stare.

“Goodnight, Sergeant Ladell,” Lila replies, smooth, like warm honey. Her focus doesn’t leave her typewriter, and that damn pencil still bobs in her mouth like debris suspended in a churning tide. And then he’s tumbling down the precarious rabbit hole of thinking about Lila Desroses’ mouth, a thought which is made exponentially creepier by the fact that they’re now the last two people left at the office. 

“Hi,” he barks, reverberant in the dusky quiet of the precinct.

He winces when her startled gaze darts up from her typewriter, the whites of her clear eyes capturing the light through her spectacles. 

Sure, he’s a little conversationally challenged, but had he misjudged his own social ineptitude that severely? Are people genuinely afraid of him? This might be even more difficult than he’d anticipated, seeing that he’s apparently the Ebenezer fucking Scrooge of the precinct. 

The hollow of her throat bobs as she swallows thickly. Slowly, she removes the pencil from her mouth. “Hi?” she replies. The edge of her sentence is tipped up a little, like a question. 

Lukas fiddles restlessly with his holster, realizing too late that now that he initiated the conversation, he is, in theory, expected to maintain it. 

“Um,” he says. 

“Did you need something?” Lila asks, tipping her head charmingly. She’s wearing a pastel pink peacoat with gold buttons, and he hasn’t the faintest idea why, but it’s suddenly the only thing he can focus on. 

“I, uh.” Lukas swipes his tongue across his lip, fully aware that he is floundering, and fully unable to stop the train from careening over the edge of the cliff. 

“Lukas?” She crosses the room to him, which makes everything even worse, because now she’s close enough that he can pick up her scent — powdered roses and something citrusy, like candied fruit. “You look kind of faint.”

“Yeah. I mean, no, I feel fine. It’s hard to explain.”

“Are you o-”

“Do you want to get coffee with me?” 

Her eyes widen infinitesimally, which he hadn’t thought was possible, given how large they were to begin with. 

“Not, like, a date. I’m not trying to, uh.” He pulls a hand through his hair, suddenly sweltering under his dress shirt. “I’m not coming onto you, or something. I need your help.” 

Bemusement dances across her features like starlight. Despite Lukas knowing that it’s at his own expense, it somehow doesn’t feel mean-spirited. “Oh,” she says. “Well, in that case, I’d be happy to help.” 

It isn’t until they’re outside in the chilled, briny air that Lukas realizes what he’s done. They walk a block in silence, the moon overbright and low-hanging over the skyline like a spotlight. It plays prettily with her features, somehow softens her even more. 

Strangely, he doesn’t feel pressured to supply conversation the way he normally would in this type of situation, so they spend the rest of the walk lulled by the white noise of the river pushing against the shoreline and the ambient hum of traffic. After they order their coffee, she suggests sitting outside, to which Lukas enthusiastically agrees. Something about being indoors and in close proximity with Lila Desroses has the tendency of short circuiting his brain. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lila asks. She must see something in his face, because she looks away when he glances at her. “You look a little stressed.”

He twists his mug between his palms. “I was denied a promotion today,” he begins slowly. 

“Oh,” Lila replies quietly. “I see.”

Lukas glances back to her, brows pulled in. “What?”

Lila shifts in her chair, drawing her lip between her teeth. His stare snags on the motion like a shadow to pavement. “What do you mean?” 

He wills himself to look anywhere besides her mouth, which then leaves him to look at her eyes, and that’s no use, because they’re as clear and full and beautiful as moonlight. 

Lukas clears his throat. “You didn’t say ‘I’m sorry’, or something. That’s what people normally say.”

Lila thrums her fingertips against the metal tabletop. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“ _God,_ no,” he breathes. 

She grins, shrugging dismissively. “I figured. So, what does that have to do with me?”

Lukas leans back, palming at his jaw. “The thing is, you’re extremely…” He sets his mug down. “Nice. And I don’t know how to be - _that_. Apparently, I’m perceived as intimidating.” 

“ _Okay_ ,” she replies slowly, drawing out the word like syrup. 

“So, I need help.”

Lila sets her own mug down, her expression shadowed with pensivity. “To get the promotion,” she replies. 

“Exactly.” 

“Alright. On one condition.”

He nods, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

“I want you to teach me how to shoot a gun.”

Lukas inhales roughly, then, sputtering a stream of coffee down the front of his shirt and into his lap. He catches his reflection in the cafe window, red-faced and gasping.

“Absolutely not,” he replies, between coughing fits. 

She frowns. “Why not?” 

He clears his throat, palming at his lap with a wad of napkins. “It’s dangerous.” 

“Well, yes. That’s the point.”

“Why on earth would you need to know how to shoot a gun?”

She considers his question, her features wistful. “The Purple Hyacinth has been more active than usual lately, and I live alone. What if I need to protect myself?”

“The Purple Hyacinth only kills nobles. People close to the royal family.” 

“For now.”

Lukas groans, rubbing his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “No.” 

“Well,” she shrugs, her bird-boned shoulders catching fragments of silhouetted moonlight. “Then I won’t be able to help you.” 

“You know, for someone so _nice_ , you’re pretty manipulative,” he grumbles.

She grins cheekily, then, wide enough that it folds dimples into the corners of her mouth. She looks like an animated marionette, smiling at him in her tiny dollhouse clothes, all pleats and buckles and ribbons and things, a raspberry flush blooming across her cheeks. “How do you think I’ve gotten this far?”

This girl will be the death of him. 

  
  
  


He took the deal. Of course he did. 

And it is because of this deal that he’s now standing in the kitchen at the precinct, methodically stirring packets of sugar into coffee cups, wondering where everything went so horribly wrong. 

“Officer Sinclair takes it with a teaspoon of sugar,” Lila says, cocking her hip against the edge of the countertop. “Lieutenant Hawkes just likes a little milk-”

“How do you even _know_ all of this?” Lukas huffs. 

Lila taps her temple. “Observation.” 

He pauses. “How do I take it, then?”

“Easy,” she replies. “Black.”

Lukas turns to her. She’s wearing a gauzy blue blouse today with a big ribbon in the front, like a present. Her face regards him openly, blithe and expressive in the yolky sunlight. 

“What am I supposed to say to them?”

She presses her lips together, holding in a laugh. “You could try ‘Good morning’.” 

Lukas sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Like I said,” Lila says, pushing off of the countertop. “Coffee is the easiest way to anyone’s heart. Why do you think these people like me so much?”

“They like you because you’re sweet,” Lukas replies matter-of-factly, vollying an empty packet into the nearby trash can. “Obviously.” 

She pauses in the threshold of the doorway, a flush crawling up her cheekbones. Her lips part in surprise. 

Lukas balances the tray on his hip, regarding her warily. “What?”

“Nothing,” she replies, head tipped to one side. She spins and drifts out of the room in a heady wave of perfume and silk. 

He draws in a deep breath, willing himself to focus on the task at hand. A task which, as he reminds himself now, quite profusely, is all in the name of helping him get a promotion. Lukas kicks open the kitchen door with his foot and steps into the common area, abuzz with motion on a busy Monday morning. 

When he sees Officer Sinclair at her desk, he draws to a stop beside it and slides a mug next to her stack of paperwork.

“Good morning,” he grumbles. 

Her startled gaze darts up from her report, the tip of her pen still posed in place. A long moment passes in which she simply looks at him, brows pulled in, as though waiting for something to happen. Slowly, she leans back in her chair, folding one leg over the other.

“What’s going on?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“I mean…” She stares at the mug as though it could, at any moment, burst into flames, or spontaneously combust. “You _made coffee_?”

“Yes,” Lukas spits. “You’re acting like I poisoned it.” 

Lauren thrums her fingertips against her desk. “Well, that’s not fair. I implied no such thing.”

“You were _thinking_ it.”

She bites back a grin over the lip of her mug, taking a languid sip. “Thank you for the coffee, Lukas.”

He makes the rounds through the rest of the precinct, biting back snappy retorts at his colleagues’ surprised expressions, eyes widened like they’ve just witnessed The Second Coming of Jesus. 

“Is it so goddamn hard to believe?” Lukas snaps, dropping heavily into his chair once he’s finished. “All I did was make coffee.” He sifts through his incident reports absently, jaw pulled taut. 

“Well-” Kym starts. 

He sighs. “Don’t answer that.” 

“Look, it’ll take time. People aren’t used to this side of you.” She leans back in her chair so that the front legs are suspended. “Speaking of which, you should come out on Friday. A few of us are getting drinks.” 

“I’m busy.”

“ _Tch._ Doing what, writing brooding poetry? Lila will be there.”

His hands still around his pen. Then, remembering himself, he resumes writing. “So?”

“ _So_ ,” Kym repeats, pulling her coat on, “You’ve got that deal, right? Isn’t this an opportunity for you to practice being less…” She waves her hand vaguely, “You know.” 

“Why does everyone keep doing that?” He snaps. “What does that even mean?” He mimics the gesture. 

She grimaces. “Er… rough around the edges?” 

Lukas’ expression grows murderous. “ _Rough around the edges_ ,” he repeats, very slowly. 

“Ah, would you look at the time!” Kym replies, clasping the lid of her pocket watch shut. “I’ve got, er - things to do!” She scrambles up so quickly that her shoulder collides with Will’s chest, and he stumbles back, his heels skidding against the floor. 

“For Christ’s sake, _Ladell,_ ” he wheezes. “Would it kill you to watch where you’re going?”

“Yep!” Kym calls over her shoulder. 

Will glances at Lukas, a question poised on his tongue. 

“Don’t even ask,” Lukas mutters, turning back to his paperwork. 

  
  
  


The rest of the week passes uneventfully, until he comes in on Wednesday and she hands him a bulging manila folder. 

“It’s a cheat sheet,” she says. Lukas opens the stack to find notes on all of his coworkers — hobbies and dislikes and conversation starters. He thumbs through the annotated papers, lost in quiet thought. “Everything you could need to know.”

He blinks, peering more closely at a note about Kym’s inclination towards watermelon. Her penmanship is just as he would have expected it to be, feather-light, swooping in swift, competent strokes.

It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for him.

“How long did this take you?” 

“Not long.” He looks up to meet her gaze. There are little half-moon shadows under her eyes. 

“You did this instead of sleeping,” he snaps, scowling.

Lila rolls her eyes. “It’s not a big deal.” 

Lukas looks back down at the file, swallowing back some ineffable feeling. “Is there one on you in here?” 

She hums. “No.”

“Why?”

“Well…” her sentence wilts. “I don’t know.” She shrugs, suddenly listless under his inspection. “If you need to know anything, you could just ask. I don’t see how that will help with the promotion, though.” 

Lukas glances at her again. She’s wearing a dusky pink clip in her hair that matches the color of her shirt, and he wonders how much time she spends color coding her outfits. “The promotion.” He shakes his head clearingly. “Right.” 

“Right,” she nods, chin tilted inquisitively. 

“Well,” he coughs. “Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

And so he walks back to his desk, armed with everything he could need to know about nearly all of his coworkers — save only for the one who matters most. 

  
  
  


He never understood the appeal of going out.

For one thing, people irritate him enough without the added factors of alcohol and crowded, enclosed spaces. But all of those things combined cause for a headache of astronomical proportions. There is also the inconvenient fact that is Lila Desroses looking pretty and unattainable in a flickering sphere of buttery light, a rose flush on her cheeks and a drink in her hands, something sweet smelling that leaves a red stain on her lips. 

She’s talking to Will about something or other, gesturing animatedly with her hands. Something sharp and unpleasant twists in his gut every time she leans in a little to punctuate a point, or when she fixes him with one of her toothy grins. 

He realizes, then, how stupid it is to think anything at all of their interactions. To place any weight in them, one way or another, because she’s simply like that with everyone. Gleaming and effervescent, like a cut diamond. 

Thoughtlessly, senselessly kind, even to the ones who are, according to public opinion, rough around the edges.

“Are you alright?” Lauren asks, twisting the lip of her beer bottle between her fingertips. “You’re staring a hole into the table,” she adds, knocking her knuckles against the wood surface. 

Lukas sets his own bottle down with more force than what is probably warranted. “Just need some air.”

He shoulders unseeingly through the crowded bar, coiled tight with misplaced frustration. Everything is suddenly too hot and close, pitched in like a waning point at the end of a tunnel. Once outside, he inhales a lungful of air, cold enough that his teeth ache. The bitter wind nips at his exposed arms, sleeves cuffed at the elbows. 

It doesn’t take long for her to find him there. He feels her before he sees her, warm and vibrant behind him, like a sunspot. 

Lila holds his coat in her outstretched hand, the lenses of her glasses fogged with her breath. “You forgot this.”

“Thanks.” She watches him slip his coat on, shuffling her weight between her feet. “Are you-”

“I’m fine.” 

Lila huffs.“Why do you always do that?” She turns to him, rendered in vibrant contrasts in the night. “I might not have Lauren’s ability, but I know a lie when I hear one.” 

A silence yawns between them like a crater. For a moment, she wonders if he didn’t hear her, but then he’s speaking, low and slow, like fog rolling over gravel. 

“It’s… reflexive,” he replies slowly. “I don’t know why.”

She worries her tongue between her teeth. “Reflexive. Well, I think it’s stupid.” Her voice softens, eyes widened marginally. “No offense.”

What happens next should be captured in oil paint, fossilized in parchment and lacquer and time. When Lukas Randall smiles at her, it unfolds his entire face like poetry, like a plant turning its face into the sun. Brilliant and bright and visceral, like static shock. “Is that so?”

For a moment, Lila is so stunned she forgets how to speak. “Uh huh,” she squeaks. She blinks down at her shoes, willing herself to look anywhere besides his face. “And while we’re at it, I don’t think you should have to change who you are for your job. If Hermann can’t see that, that’s his problem.” 

His hand comes up under her jaw, warm and sure, lifting her chin so that she meets his eyes. They’re fixed squarely on her face, ablaze with something hot and roving. “Any other suggestions?”

“Just one more,” she breathes. “When someone asks you if you’re okay, I think that you should say what you’re really feeling.” 

He looks at her, pastels and soft planes, watching him patiently, as though they’ve got all the time in the world. “What I’m feeling,” he repeats. “Do you really want to know?” 

“Yes.”

Lukas brings his palms up to frame her face, tracing the apples of her flushed cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. 

Her eyes drift shut, resolve suddenly tapered as thin as a paper crane. His lips find hers like the meeting of two fixed points, an asteroid seeking its orbit. He threads his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck, pressing in closer, tracking the warm sweetness with his tongue like a needle to a compass.

When she sighs into his mouth, soft and warm, it unravels something dormant in him. He edges her up against the brick wall, fingertips folded into the soft pleats of her skirt at her hips, hot-blooded and spun out of control, action seeking reaction. She parts her lips a little against his and he laps at her voraciously, warm and sure in the place where they collide, like falling asleep in a patch of sunlight. 

Time becomes inconsequential. It’s impossible to say whether they stumbled upon one another like this, or if they’ve simply always been this way. He pulls back, gasping, tipping his forehead against hers. They spend a long moment looking at each other, wide-eyed, as though desperate to memorize the other’s expression.

“That,” he breathes. “ _That_. Is what I am feeling.”

  
  
  


The sight of Lila Desroses holding his gun sparks something in him like a live wire.

Sure, it’s terrifying in equal measure. Her stance is all wrong; all bent angles that should be straight lines, a tentative grip like a receding tide. And yet, he looks at her, soft lips parted in concentration, chin tipped up, one eye fallen shut, and he is faced with the feeling he always has around her. 

Which is to say, the feeling of complete helplessness. 

“The recoil will snap your wrist back if you hold it that way,” he says, watching her with his arms crossed over his chest. 

She lowers the gun, tilting her head towards him. “Well, then. Perhaps you’d care to show me, _Sergeant Randall_?” 

“For one thing,” he says, and she shivers when he drifts his fingertips along her shoulders. “You’re too tense here.” He brings her left hand up to the gun, curling her fingers over one another. “And you’re not good enough to shoot with one hand yet.”

“But it looks cooler.”

“You know what’s _really_ cool? Not blowing your hand off.” 

She presses her lips together, humming affirmatively. 

“Arms out, like this.” He bends her elbows until her arms are extended straight out, pointed at the target like a compass, and then nudges her foot with the toe of his boot. “Feet parallel to your shoulders.”

“There sure are a lot of _rules,”_ she sighs. 

“The rules,” he says, and she gulps when his hands come to her hips, re-positioning her in front of the target, “Are to keep you from hurting yourself.” He takes a step back, admiring his handiwork. “Alright. Try it now.” 

She draws in a breath, narrowing her vision to a pinprick. Her shot falls far right, splintering a hole in the corner of the board. 

“You’re not aiming down your sights.” 

Lila cranes her neck, blowing a strand of hair into her glasses. “But,” she says, “I got it on the board!” 

He looks at her, grinning so hopefully at him that, despite her complete inaptitude for marksmanship, he can’t bear to let her down. “You got it on the board,” he agrees, nodding. He gingerly takes the gun from her grip and gestures for her to take a step back with a tilt of his head. 

Lukas lifts his arm and rings out three rounds, each sinking center headshots. He clears the rest of the chamber with more bravado than what the situation warrants, flicking his wrist back in a fluid, cocksure motion. 

“Showoff,” Lila mutters.

“Only where you’re concerned,” Lukas agrees, flicking the safety back on and returning the pistol to his holster. He reaches for her hand, so small in his, folded like a fledgling bird. They walk out of the range and into the warmth of the day. For a moment, Lukas feels content enough to melt into the afternoon, all spun liquid gold and baked warmth. 

She notices that he’s fallen quiet and leans into his shoulder with her own. “Are you okay?”

He turns to her, doe-eyed and brushed in gold, wearing a smile that is specifically for him. “Perfect,” he says. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and Kudos make me smile. 
> 
> -Rabbit


End file.
